Trampled Under Foot
by caithream
Summary: Sam and Dean celebrate a birthday.


Taking the scenic route while driving to their destination was something rarely ever done by Dean. So much so, in fact, that Sam couldn't help but feel a guilty sort of wariness; earlier times spent on lonely stretches of roads and trails off the beaten path had led to conversations that were still far too fresh in Sam's mind. Still, watching Dean from Sam's angle in the passenger seat, one hand thrown lazily on top of the steering wheel, hand twitching and knee bouncing in time with the beat of "Night Flight," Sam decides that maybe this time he should just sit back and enjoy the scenery.

Boone, North Carolina wasn't exactly in the middle of nowhere, but it was rural enough to give Sam a strange sort of homely comfort. The Blue Ridge Mountains rose up majestically to their left, though during this time of year they weren't beholden to their namesake. Instead, the landscape had been transformed into a sea of vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows, almost unnatural in their intensity, the hazy hillsides giving the colors an appearance of being smudged together. Even for someone who had traveled the country far and wide, traversing through the stomping grounds of family roadtrips and attractions without batting an eye, Sam was impressed. Maybe he could even convince Dean to take a drive through the High Country back roads, popular with people who wanted to take on tight, winding roads at top speeds, usually in sport cars, but Sam thought Dean would get a kick out of taking the Impala through the looping routes.

At the moment they were in between jobs, and while they hadn't stumbled on anything for a good week, they hadn't exactly been scouring the internet or newspapers looking for something to hunt either. And that was fine, Sam reckons. Sometimes even Dean needed a breather before plunging back into hunter mode; more so recently than ever. Rumors of some sort of witch in Charleston were circulating, though there was nothing concrete, so they had taken their time, meandering up from Savannah, Georgia. Sam just suspects, with a grin, that Dean likes the South more so than he let on.

As Beech Mountain begins looming closer in the distance than the rest, Sam thinks back to earlier that afternoon while still in town. He had seen Dean chewing on his lip, looking thoughtful without even probably knowing it, and Sam kept quiet until they pulled into a liquor store attached to a supermarket.

"Dude," he said, unable to keep the bewildered tone out of his voice, "I know it's a Friday, but it is only 1:30 in the afternoon." Dean gave an annoyed _tsk_ as he turned off the engine.

"Yeah, whatever. You'll thank me for this later, _Mom_. I'll be right back."

Five minutes later he returned with a brown paper bag and a smirk. Sam didn't even bother peeking. Hours later and Dean still hasn't touched the bag, though at this point Sam was sure it had to do more with the destination and less with the liquor.

The air is cold and a little damp, but the Impala's heater is worn in and the temperature in the car is comfortable enough for Sam to start to doze off, though not really; the rumble of the car, the constant movement, and his brother's humming makes him feel more content than he has in weeks. It isn't until he feels the car slowing and his head lifting off the window as Dean makes a right turn that he rubs the sleep from his eyes and looks around.

It's a little niche off the highway, secluded by the trees and almost unnoticeable. The dropoff just a few feet out from where Dean parks doesn't even have a railing, and just one glance over the edge after he gets out makes Sam's toes tingle and sends his stomach into flips. It isn't because he's afraid of heights - that's all Dean's area of expertise - but it's the _finality_ of it, a rise of something in his chest that he can't quite put to name, so he just smiles with his hands in his jacket pockets and toes the dirt with his shoe.

Dean's already leaning on the hood when Sam turns back around, arms braced on the car, his left thumb moving in a slow circle on the cold steel. His eyes are focused in the distance, a faraway look on his face, but it has none of the coldness that Sam hates himself for expecting whenever Dean goes quiet like this. Instead, it's the same sort of contentment Sam feels, which makes him grin all the more.

"So," he says, taking his spot next to Dean on the Impala. Dean turns his head lazily towards him.

"So," he agrees, almost mirroring Sam's grin.

"Glad to know that even though you can't get any girls, you still know how to take your brother on a really nice date," Sam says. At that, Dean throws his head back and laughs.

"Bitching," he says, kicking a small bit of earth on to Sam's shoe, "isn't going to get you anywhere. Actually, there is a perfectly legit reason for, you know, this." He reaches down and grabs the paper bag, and almost ceremoniously pulls out a bottle that reads _Glenfiddich Malt Scotch 80_.

Sam gapes.

"Know what year it is?" Dean asks.

"W—uh. Do you mean, as in, right now, or as in that expensive bottle of liquor you're holding. Jesus, Dean, Scotch?"

"Two thousand seven," Dean continues, ignoring Sam. "And this baby?" he glides his hand over the hood of the Impala. "Nineteen sixty-seven. Forty years, Sam. She's forty years old." Sam shakes his head in complete and utter amazement.

"You bought a bottle of Scotch for a car, Dean."

"Hell yeah. I mean, dude, come on. After all these years, you really can't still consider her just _a_ car, can you? She's _our_ car. She's seen a hell of a lot."

"And still lives to see another day," Sam murmurs. Thinking about it, really, it's not that crazy of a gesture, even if she is a car. The Impala's been a second home, sometimes the _only_ home, to them for most of their lives. It's well-worn, though not through anyone else's doing but the Winchesters, and it _fits_ in a way that Sam hardly ever stops to think about. After the accident last year, even Sam had felt a devastating wrench in his gut when Bobby had taken him to see it and Dean… well. Sam was sure Dean was going to lose it when Sam took him to Bobby's, what with the death of their father still so painfully _there_, and the Impala almost broken beyond recognition, all too much to take in, too much damage to deal with, but Dean had stood on shaking legs, clenching both jaw and fists, the raw determination in his face scaring Sam.

But, as it was, Dean's determination was what had ultimately allowed them to sit here, now, leaning against the shining, black hood, no trace that there had ever even been such an accident.

Sometimes he hates himself when that little voice in the back of his mind says _my big brother is SO COOL._ And hate it though he may, this time he can't deny it.

"Yeah," Sam hears Dean saying. "I'm telling you. This car? Just kicks so much ass, man. Oh, hey. You've heard of the High Country back roads, right? 'Cause we are so taking her up there, dude." This time it's Sam who laughs.

"Only if you let me take a spin," he says.

"Yeah _right_," says Dean. He pulls two cheap, ninety-nine cent shot glasses out of the bag and hands one to Sam.

"Dean," Sam says, trying not to sound like a kill-joy. "We can't just… have this and drive." Dean makes a face.

"Have you forgotten how awesome I am at holding my liquor? Relax, Sammy. Just one. For now, at least."

"I still can't believe you got the car a more expensive birthday present than you got me," Sam grumbles, but he takes the shot glass.

"Sorry Sammy, but it's ladies first, as always." Sam decides not to touch that line with a ten foot pole. Instead, he looks out and down the valley at the ripple of the hills and cascades of color and hopes that the both of them won't get up and go too soon.

"To the Impala," says Dean, raising the shot glass. "The best home away from home."

Sam, too, raises his glass, understanding and echoing his brother's sentiments in more than just words.

. 


End file.
